whooooa has it really been two weeks since my last post?
so much has happened in that short amount of time that I found it difficult to put into words until the dust had settled and the horizon was clear, if you catch my drift.
Time is a bitch, time is an elusive, masochistic fickle little cunt. you can never really get the hang of her.

One day you think you got her down, you got your hands wrapped around her perfect, hourglass body, feeling the minute particles and sand sift through your fingers. witnessing the ebb and flow of her minutes and hours and sunsets in perfect alignment with your very breathe. these are the fleeting moments of perfection we are unaware of, these are the brief vignettes of our actions and intentions existing in flawless accordance to our original design and purpose as individuals.

Than, there are the times she slips from our grasp, our aging, flailing hands clutch at empty air that is itself decaying around us. The minutes reveal themselves as hours and the breathes we took have stretched to unbroken slumber, stealing moons from us unwitting to the cruel machinations compelling us to awaken.

I reached out and wrapped my hands around that thieving cunt once again. Clutching her tightly to my chest I survey my surroundings and take inventory to see what she has made off with throughout my long, unbroken slumber.

I find myself in a small, windowless room. the floor is hardwood panels and there is scattered furniture in varying states of functionality in each of the four corners.
I have a room now, I answered a craigslist ad for a room in shoreline (the poor man’s seattle) and wrote some girl a check for 530.00. I have vague memories of this happening, but it’s all through that hazy, sepia filter of heroin addled retrospect. So far so good, at least me and my girlfriend are no longer wifi gypsies camping out in her car every night.
I check my phone and find that, at 2 o clock in the morning. the girl I assume is my landlord has sent me a very earnest, very indignant three page text relaying to me “some concerns” from the current tenants sharing the downstairs.
I moved jam, strawberry jam to be exact. Inside the fridge there are shelves, as is usually the case with fridges, and these shelves are marked with helpful numbers that are intended to enlighten me on where things go in the fridge. My shelf is number two, the tolkienesque text message informs me. By moving the strawberry jam from shelf one, to shelf two, I had thrown the thirty three year old sailor moon fan that is my roommate into such a state of confusion and disarray that he has taken to hiding out in his room (my mind’s eye insists that he is clutching onto either a full-length-anime-schoolgirl body pillow or Fluttershy My Little Pony stuffed animal for dear life) and texting the landlord insisting that I need to be thrown out into the cold, prostitute wandered streets of shoreline for committing such an atrocity.
It is early, I am tired, I am sober.
I remedy my sobriety and mounting disgust at such a banal accusation through my usual means and get rid of the evidence. I must adapt, I tell myself as the heroin slides down the foil, letting its sooty dragon’s tail coil about the foil marking my progress and increasing ability to cope. Somedays you adapt to sleeping in the car, other days you adapt to appeasing the overweight-shutin-anime god with offerings of apologetic strawberry jam and taking the time to read everyones mind to find out the storied rules and regulations of the communal kitchen space.
these are the places life leads me to, and when the journey is over and the trail behind me surpasses the horizon ahead I will be grateful for it.

Today I awoke feeling as if everything will be alright.
it is not often I wake feeling this way, mornings are usually the time where the barrier between who I am inside and who I meet the world as is at its most permeable. As if the weakness and anxieties I strive to cover up permeate into my protective mask and all will be known to the world.
Today however, the light seems brighter, the air seems lighter, and the barrier seems unnecessary. I look at my girlfriend as she sleeps and notice how calm and sweet she looks, how perfectly her obsidian hair frames her ivory face. Severe, Slavic features at rest, awash in the morning light.
I leave the car barefoot, it is 8:30 in the morning and there is a thin autumn fog lolling listlessly about the pavement, little tendrils and testaments float up and out about my footsteps as I survey the sidewalks and bus stops for the tell-tale blue nicotine ghosts that gather about incriminatingly.
I walk about first hill looking for a cigarette, September calls to me from the blazing boughs of maple and the soft sunlight that streams through their corpse weave of perishing leaves like thin rods of glass.
I walk in that space between I think to myself, between the nicotine ghosts along the sidewalk and the sun that filters through the perishing maple leaves.
Between the fog that shrouds my steps like smoke gathering from errant candle flame and the opaque sky with the thin glass that pierces the trees.
All at once I am vulnerable, all at once I am indomitable.
To live on the fringe of existence, at the edge of desperation where want turns to need and need breeds strength.

I am never more alive then when I am there, in that place.

I am never more at peace then at the edge of obscurity.

What dreams I had have long since passed, so it is here you will find me;

I apologize! my burgeoning and freshly encountered reader base, I have not written anything in a couple more days than I would like. You will discover the more you follow this page that I have less control over my life and my surroundings than most people, a running theme of my life that has brought both great insight as well as great hardship.

You see, a couple days ago I was attacked, well, my girlfriend and I were attacked. We were taking a break from our contracting job through Poster Giants, she had ordered some chinese food while I got high in the parking area on pike and broadway across from the TweekFC. I saw someone smoking a cigarette walking up the hill towards union so I searched my pockets and found a crumbled dollar, George Washington smiling pertly at me through a thick film of white powder that had accumulated upon the bill’s surface. I remember thinking how it always seemed that he was judging me, it was only with Washington that it seemed that way. Abraham and Ol hickory don’t seem to mind when your using their face to do drugs, in fact Lincoln almost seems to condone it. “Do what you will young man” he seems to say as you roll the five into a nostril size tube, “However if you are going to snort drugs make sure to include some black folks as well, I didn’t win the civil war and die in the back of a movie theater for you to be racist about your molly in some abandoned warehouse in Seattle. But Washington? that bitch is definitely throwing some shade at you. Not only is he judging your drug use but the wrinkly old cunt is straight looking down on you for coming to your drug dealer with a fat stack of ones and expecting a decent sack in return.
These were the thoughts that were running through my mind when I ambled up the hill to buy a smoke from some random person. He gave me a quick shake of his head and declined my offer. I walked down and made my way towards the car when I saw someone walking my way up the hill. Looked to be around forty, he had the ragged jacket and weathered, greyed complexion of the homeless but the sagging pants and arrogant swagger of a gangbanger. In short, this guy was the whole package, a real panty dropper. His dark hair was slicked back against his scalp. his face adorned in a couple obscure gang tattoos. There was a combination of illiteracy and singular, violent ill-intent in his eyes, the face of someone dimly aware that he was about to do something stupid but still relishing the cathartic, carnal release it may bring, or more probably, the ten dollars of meth he was promised upon the deals completion.
“Hey white boy!” he yelled out to me from the bottom of the hill, “come here I got something to say to you…”
My years of experience living along society’s fringe has taught me many wisdoms. Resting comfortably among the top ten of these is the wisdom that if you hear someone call out “hey white boy!” it is probably best that you avoid them and ignore any thing they might have to say to you.
I glanced back and saw that our red chevy cruz was a good ways away, I could hear my girlfriend yelling out to me trying to tell me something but couldn’t make out what it was.
“Hey come here!” I heard him call out again, looking back I could see that he was swaggering the “I dropped out of high school to sell meth at the park and listen to tupac” swagger up the hill towards me, his right hand concealing something in his sleeve.
“Get the fuck away from me!” I called out, putting on my best “I am superior to you and you are irking me” voice. He rudely ignored me and sauntered as fast as his “three sized too large” pants would allow.
From here it gets a little hazy, see I have an anxiety disorder, part of this anxiety disorder is my brain producing too much adrenaline; 90 percent of the time I fucking hate having anxiety but in specific situations, situations just like these, I am almost grateful for it.
The world seemed to swim about me as he approached, somewhere diagonally up and to the right in my skull I heard a female voice say “he has a taser!” I took several bounding steps back towards the car before he got too close and I turned to approach him, my right arm reaching out desperately for the car door.

At this moment I heard the clicking sound of electricity and he thrust his arm towards me, his face a mask of ignorant satisfaction. I spun to the right and watched his face twist in anger as he realized he missed. He brought his arm back to strike again and when he struck forward he almost fell on his face as I jumped backwards.He caught his balance and swung once more, calling me a faggot as I did what was basically, for all intents and purposes, a pretty pink ballerina’s pirouette to my left and arched my face back. the taser grazed the leather jacket I was wearing and I could see the blue light of electricity singe the material but I was unharmed.

He had over extended, so I took the opportunity to push him back as hard as I could and finally got the car door open, he cursed at me and righted himself before lunging a final time, only to smash his weapon against a shut car door.
My girlfriend had been screaming, but she had the foresight to lock the doors and we could feel the car rock back as he took his frustration out on the car window, kicking it over and over and urging me to come out of the car.
I looked, over urging her to drive when I saw the reason she had been screaming, my old roommate was advancing down the hill with a metal bar in his hand. He swung at her door, clearly angry that I had eluded him, but was too weak to do any real damage. I almost wanted to yell out at him to correct his form. The kid held the crowbar with a limp wrist and was swinging it like a badminton racquet. I mean, if you are going to hire someone to attack me and then try to attack my girlfriend at least hold your fucking weapon correctly am I right?

My sweet girlfriend, even in the grip of fear at the people who had attempted to seriously hurt us, took great pains to exit the parking lot without hitting the person behind us or running over the kid in front of us. Who, at this point, had given up trying to damage the car and instead had taken to running the sharp part along the hood, scratching the paint.

We managed to get out of the situation unhurt and drove off a couple cities away, stopping only to pick up more drugs and hate text the kid that did this. If you live in fear it only lets them win, I repeated to her as mantra, justifying our unwise pit stop by my drug dealers house.

No self absorbed philosophical meaning today, no deeper message hidden in the narrative, just wanted to let ya guys know why I havnt written in a couple days and to tell a cool story. Stay safe guys, it gets rough out there.

September.
September has always been one of my favorite months. The oppressively hot august days, with their sweltering afternoons that seem to drain all the life out of you, give way for mornings shrouded in fog and afternoons that feel washed clean from summer’s inertia.
There is a smokey, electric feel to the air that seems to speak of ancient, pagan power rousing from its slumber and setting forth machinations beyond our comprehension.

At the onset of every season, I become transfixed with memories of the seasons prior. Like a cycle continuing its revolution to being me here and now once again. For the majority of my life I have been involved in school in some form or another. For me, the new year begins in the stark, grey austerity of September, with its promise of the upcoming academic year and the fresh possibilities it brings.
I remember 8th grade, upon a soccer field still shrouded by the new autumn fog, my shorts clinging to my legs in the morning dew. September called out to me through the V shape of Canadian geese flying over head. Their grey and black bodies flying so low I lept up into the air and plucked a feather as they passed. Holding it up triumphantly to the other boys.

I remember September in 2010. My friend Christian had recently turned 21 so we piled all our friends in the back of his pick up truck and drove from the little apartment we shared to the liquor store. He was the only one in our group with a car so we all squeezed together in the back wherever we went. September called out to me then, from the dreary streets of Tacoma awash in the autumn rain. I was sandwiched between two teenage girls still stubbornly adorned in their slutty summer attire. It was when they drew closer to me for warmth, their hands stroking my chest and their little breaths warming the nape of my neck that I knew that I was invincible, that nothing could harm or sadden me in that place in time. We gladly held on to the booze on the way back, letting the spiced whisky we declined to pay for warm us as we passed it back and forth. She climbed on top of me then, the autumn rain soaking her blonde hair that clung to her face. She worked her mouth down my body and I could feel my cock pulsing in her grasp despite the cold September wind blustering about us. And when the blast of some pious travelers horn interrupted our drunken passions she got up from on top of me, her pale face awash in the headlights, the autumn wind whipping her hair all about. She took a big pull from the bottle before lifting her shirt up and flashing her tits at the car behind us. It was during this September that I knew I would never be happier than I would be that fall.

I remember September the next year, it called to me from within the shambled trap house I called home. She was young and beautiful, she was strong and broken. I watched her spin her sanity away every night and try to push it back into her veins the following morning. She would get better she promised me, a lie that would echo back to me throughout the following nine months. I watched her destroy herself, too innocent and naive to realize that some people are beyond love. I drowned myself in drugs and alcohol, passing the time till she got better. September called out to me then, from the moans that escaped her lips as she let some weather worn hobo fuck her on the floor of my living room for drugs, the man she had chosen instead of me watching from the kitchen table, waiting for his cut of the profits birthed from her vagina.

September calls to each of us. From its grey skies it reminds us of our mortality and to live our lives in joyful contrast to the bleak austerity that gathers all around. It’s fog shrouded mornings bare an omen of winter snow, a reminder of the silent, introspective months ahead. The harvest is upon us so let us reap the rewards of the year, revel in the lessons we learned over the past 9 months and live our selves to the fullest before the snow falls. And when you look out upon the driving rain and breathe in the air that carries with it the scent of deities, I hope September calls out to you too.

I wake up this morning with a weight in my head and a leech in my stomach. An all but palpable sucking feeling deep in my gut, as if some parasite is residing within me sapping my strength. My throat is coated with some course lacquer, I cough and nothing comes up but a thin, viscous fluid from my gut. Something inside me does not like all the ice cream I ate last night. This is just a hollow reassurance. A half-truth meant to ease my anxieties about the real reason I might wake up with my stomach all a fluster and my skin burning with a frozen flame. How many days has it been now? Oh come now, let’s be real, there’s no one to lie to in this place, me and you work together remember? How many weeks has it been? You got high on your way up to rent the place, If I remember correctly you picked up some bullshit bag downtown, then went back for another bullshit bag. Was three days really so long away from it that you had to willingly let some nigger rip you off? Whatever, it’s all passed now. Except it isn’t really, it won’t be passed until you let it course out of you, you spent so long denying it, a foot in both camps. You bore the burden of two worlds until your sanity broke and left you a shivering, delusional, feral animal; an animal incapable of sleeping without wondering if you would wake up in the morning, or if that creature would come again. That creature with the hands that press on your chest and the mouth that sucks your soul out of your motionless body like a blowjob’s twisted parody do you want to be in that place again? This Faustian bargain can only go on for so long, we need to do as much as we can together you and I. make as much progress in as little time possible and then part ways for a while. Because the longer we are together, the more and more I consume you. It is not my intent, it is just my nature, would you blame the fire for burning your hands as you try to warm them? Sit by me, breathe me in, let me sustain you but extinguish my flames before too long or I will burn down everything you hold dear, then, in the grips of your own self loathing and anguish, you will take me into your arms and let me devour you. So lets work together you and I, lets get you where you’ve wanted to be for so long, then let us part ways for a while. Just remember, if you are ever alone, if you are ever scare4d, if you ever feel that again, you know exactly where to find me.

Do you ever feel as if the aspects of your life existed before you did? That your experiences, your memories and thoughts are an inheritance, passed down from generations before, originating somewhere and within something utterly inhuman at its genesis? That your experiences were but a small part of a larger design, that while your body might have emerged kicking and screaming from within your mother, your soul and very essence was bared by something far grander, something ephemeral that can be felt but never touched, clamored for yet never truly grasped ?

I have long felt these things, remnants of an aspect aeons passed manifesting now in but a fraction of its original scope and majesty. Vermilion strands of time and being unraveling around and about in endless sprawling array, toward the heavens and sky above. It would come with the joy I felt within another’s arms, or as a disparaging sorrow swelling within the face of some tragedy that felt so important at the time yet waned and scattered amidst the waves of time as the threads wove on.

The color you cannot see, the wind that flits about and around in intangible ebbs and flows. the river that courses unheard throughout the paths and ways of your life. The reflection cast in the stiller waters within you, where your soul finds resolution. The fire fostered by the struggles and triumphs that dwarf your very being, the light that radiates from the aspect’s manifestation and the shadow that blankets you in its outcome.

I have long walked with these things.Beheld their language uttered in forgotten tongues. Endured their trials and reaped the harvest of their fruition. The principalities that whisper and convey their design if we just lay down our thoughts, and listen.
Within these pages I hope to convey their message, the visions perceived when on the precipice of their cold fire and inspiration, that place in-between our perception and what lies just beyond. There is a knowledge and language far greater than us, a wisdom that is found only in the darkest catacombs of the soul, and it is here, that I hope to make those wisdoms known.